


music for the restless

by bottledlogic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Midnight Conversations, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledlogic/pseuds/bottledlogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve hears that same song playing, and discovers another shadow of a figure waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	music for the restless

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song [it's been a long, long time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cG1L9wxYbs0) (i.e. the song that's playing in the background when fury crashes steve's apartment) -- i had an epiphany when listening to the lyrics; it was brutal and this fic is the result.

He can hear the music playing from the tinny speakers in his apartment, and he thinks, _god, not again_.

Instinctively, his hand goes to the shield on his back, before coming to rest on the doorknob. He slides the key in, throwing all caution to the wind, and turns. The door creaks open from months of disuse, and he has to stop himself, steel himself, fight the sudden surge of adrenaline from a long long day.

( _it’s been so long_.

 _so long_.)

He flicks on the light and hopes like hell that there isn’t another shadowy figure seated on his couch.

“You and Fury both,” he exhales, seeking out the slender profile in front of his bookcase. He sets down his shield and collapses onto the couch. “The song’s a nice code and everything, but you don’t need to rub it in,” he adds with a touch of bitterness.

She places the book in her hand back on the shelf, turns the stereo off, and turns to face him. Her face remains blank, but he swears he sees a tiny ounce of guilt lurking behind her eyes. “Wasn’t my intention,” she says. “I didn’t want to startle you. Admittedly, the song choice—”

He waves a weary hand. “Makes sense, Fury told you.”

“Yes, well, given who you’ve been looking for… I’m sorry,” she says, softer.

He drags his eyes up to meet hers and shakes his head, “At least I gave you a key.”

“Right,” she quirks her mouth fractionally, and walks over to the seat across from him.

He digs the palm of this hand into his gritty eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “So, I’m guessing Sam called you after I left?”

“Yeah,” she confirms. “Said you were at the Smithsonian today.”

“Working off something Sam read on the internet,” he shrugs. “Some guy thought he saw Bucky at the exhibits.”

“And what do you think?”

He is silent and he hears the old grandfather clock tick away, uncaring and infinite. It stops for no one, he realises, stops for none at all, hears none, remembers none.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. “I thought—I thought we had him. He could have been so close. _We_ could have been so close—been in the same city again—me, Peggy, Bucky…”

( _—theirs are three lives, suspended, motionless; no one goes home, no home to go to—_

 _oh, how it could have been_ )

She sits unmoving as his voice dies away, and he closes his eyes, refusing to look at her, at whatever expression she wears hidden carefully away behind her standard professional mask. The clock keeps ticking, and still, she doesn’t move.

“Tell me about them,” she says eventually, low voice slicing through the soft beats.

_do you care?_

“We did so much. And we could have done so much more,” he says, cracking. “There was never enough time.”

“There never is,” she agrees.

He nods once, distractedly. “Italy in November of ’43, I was still doing the USO tours. There was this one where I was in front of a crowd of active servicemen. And I was a joke.” He pauses, fingers returning to knead at his eyes. “I was the biggest joke in the entire company. I _waited_ until she told me to get my ass moving, told me there was more.”

“Sensible woman,” she says with a small grin.

He flicks a tired smile in her direction. “You know how, sometimes, you can’t stop asking yourself _what if_?”

She gives him a slight shrug – _hopes that it’s halfway convincing, because no, not really, not in that sense_ – and gestures for him to continue.

“What if we reached his unit in time, got him out before he was experimented on? And what if he hadn’t survived the fall off the train? What if they never had the chance to turn him into the Winter Soldier?”

“You’ll drive yourself insane thinking that,” she says, staring him straight in the eye.

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “But still…”

_and there was this one time when she came home after school – her exam went fine, she just missed out on breaking her own track record, and she managed to stop johnny appleby from defacing her locker with a single glare, thank you for asking – and her father was in the kitchen and she can hear the muttering, a crescendo that builds builds builds, tips over (avoiding conflict has never been her strong suit)_

_and she wonders, yes,_ what if _—_

_what if she runs far enough away, past the scuffed wooden gate, past the street, school, chicago, abroad, into the arms of something she doesn’t quite understand but is all too ready to agree with—_

_what if she finds somewhere else (remember: home is a concept, not a place – but even that sounds far too trite for anyone’s ears)—_

“I think,” she says, “that we delude ourselves into thinking – into hoping – that home will always be better and _there_.”

“No, I know,” he shakes his head once vehemently, his declaration hoarse and harsh, eyes closing again to the lost memories. “It was, and I was happy.”

She falls silent ( _can’t say anything to that_ ); thinking and drumming her fingers against the wooden armrest of her chair.

“Right now, we’re a poor substitute. I won’t say otherwise. And no one would object if you left.”

He opens his eyes and manages to give her half a grin. “I know you’re not a fan of us, but…”

“Oh, trust me, there are easier ways – and ways that don’t involve Stark yelling at me – to get rid of you,” she smirks, before turning serious again. “Take some time. Find him. Figure out what you need to do first.”

“And what about everything else that needs doing? The Avengers, whatever’s left of HYDRA?”

“Everything else will come from that,” she finishes bluntly. “You’re no use to us otherwise.”

She’d decided long ago that anything _except_ pragmatism and a loyalty to her own values would eventually lead to gripping indecision and the inability to do anything, and _where would she be then_?

He nods absently in consideration and asks suddenly, “Why are you here?”

“Wilson said you’d be here—”

“—That’s not a—”

“—and I thought you could use a familiar face,” she finishes, wary from the interruption.

He looks down guiltily. “I thought Sam put you up to this, told you instead to say what he’s been wanting to say to me for the last couple of days.”

She snorts, “I hardly know him. You think I’d let him dictate what I say?”

“No, of course not,” he says ruefully. “But I think he knows he’ll never understand what S.H.I.E.L.D. meant.”

_(who’s the girl, natasha asks –  and he looks once at howard, once at peggy_

_and moves on_

_god, what legacy is this, where we who protect shoot them one by one, handpicked  from the sky?_

_what legacy?)_

“And even those who thought they did…” She trails off, and this is the first time in many long months that he’s heard even a hint of bitterness lace her words.

The clock is still ticking, and he watches the hypnotic swing, tries to formulate precisely what to say.

“You should stay.” He doesn’t hesitate, stands his ground, determination flashing in his eyes.

“I’m in New York, but you can reach me whenever,” she says, eyebrows raised. “I trust Tony’s given you the latest phone?”

“I meant now. Here.”

“And what? I only meant to drop in.”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But it’s eleven already, and—”

“—And I have to get back to the Tower for tomorrow.”

“Right,” he says, realising. “Sorry, I thought…”

“Next subcommittee hearing is in two weeks,” she supplies. She stares impassively at him, and makes a snap decision.

“Do you have a chess set somewhere?”

At his confused nod, she continues, “Usually, I’ll play a game if I’m stuck on a problem. Takes your mind off things, makes you think more broadly.”

He gets up, crosses to the bookshelf she was perusing earlier, and digs out an almost unused set. He places it on the table between them, and carefully organises the pieces around the board.

“And it works?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “Or, I could just really enjoy the game.”

She offers him the white pieces, and neither of them speak for the next ten minutes. He’s frowning at the board and in the process of moving his bishop, when he glances up and sees the concentration on her face.

“So who taught you to play?”

 She doesn’t answer immediately; instead, nudges one of her pawns forward.

“My father, in one of his more coherent moments,” she replies, after he captures said pawn.

He frowns again, this time at her. “Did he…?”

“We all have things we choose to run towards,” she says calmly, sliding her rook across a few squares. “Your move, Captain.”

He opens his mouth to respond, before thinking better of it. And they play without talking, the ticking grandfather clock providing the only soundtrack to the game at hand. Not long after it strikes midnight, she quietly breaks the silence.

“Check.”

He stares, a slow smile unfurling from the corners of his mouth. “Of course.”

“Wasn’t going to make it easy for you.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to,” he laughs softly. He scans the board before leaning back, conceding, and waiting for her to take his king.

He glances up at the clock, wincing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you here.”

She arches a brow. “It’s fine,” she says, standing and shrugging on her jacket. “But I’m not staying,” she adds gently.

“Yeah.” He looks at her, runs a hand messily through his hair.

“Let me know when you’re ready, when you’ve figured it out,” she says, halfway out the door. “We’ll play again some other day.”

Nodding, he closes the door behind her. Resting his forehead against the cool wood, he sees the dull glint of his shield from behind the couch, still there, the pattern unfaded from seventy years ago.

_(the restless don’t stop_

_and they start over; build their home from scratch again_

_and make of it what they will—)_


End file.
